


The Pure and Simple Truth

by 221b_hound



Series: The Pure and Simple Truth [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fix-It, Multi, not season 4 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9360893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: The truth wasn’t always beautiful, but it was theirs. The truth of Sherlock and John and Mary; the truth of siblings and the terrible things they did. It wasn’t pure or simple, but it was what it was.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My own take on what really happened in seasons 3 and 4 of Sherlock. What we've seen is the hodgepodge of fiction Sherlock thought he should tell Rosie when she grows up. But this is the story of what really happened.
> 
> Tags will be updated as i go.
> 
> note: I've edited it to make this a series so I can more easily add the next parts as multi-part chapters.

John sensed the sleepy quiet as he came up the stairs, and in a moment his heavy home-from-work tread morphed into a tippy-toe onto the landing and a slow-and-easy-does-it opening of the door.

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, fast asleep, with Rosie sprawled on top of Sherlock, likewise sleeping.  She had one hand curled in a fist in Sherlock’s shirt beside her ear, and she was sucking her other thumb. John could see the drool patch she was leaving on Sherlock’s shirt. Her little legs were splayed on either side of Sherlock’s stomach, and Sherlock’s hands rested in the middle of her back and on her nappied rump, holding her safe. Sherlock had pulled the coffee table up close, and covered it with a few of her blankets as well as John’s woollen throw that habitually lived on the back of his chair. If Rosie woke and rolled, she’d have a soft landing and give Sherlock enough time to catch her. They looked comfortable though.

Smiling, John placed his bag on the floor under the coat hooks; hung his coat. He tippy-toed to the kitchen.

There to find a table cluttered not with the usual paraphernalia either for experiments or for supper, but with a half dozen exercise books. The first had the name ‘The Empty Hearse’ across it in Sherlock’s distinctive writing.

Curious, John flipped it open and read the first few lines. Then, eyes widening, a few more. He flipped forward a few pages.

With a puzzled frown, he pushed the exercise book aside and found another. ‘Last Vow’. He flipped through it, frowning. Took up the one labelled ‘’The Six Thatchers’, and the contents of that one made his brow furrow darkly.

“John?”

John turned as Sherlock shifted. Rosie grizzled, and Sherlock’s arms immediately moved to hold her steady against his chest as Sherlock nudged the coffee table out of the way with his knees and stood up.

“Those aren’t finished,” said Sherlock.

“What are they?”

“An experiment.”

“They’re mad, is what they are. And they’re not what happened.”

“They are. A little bit.”

“A very little bit. But mostly. No. Not at all. What’s it all about?”

Rosie complained sleepily again. Sherlock sighed as he jigged her in his arms. “They’re for Rosie. To explain… to try to explain about. Everything. When she’s old enough to ask. Well. Not _those_ stories exactly. I’m not finished yet. They’re… not right yet.”

“Sherlock, they’re bonkers. And…” John flinched at the memory of some of the passages he’d seen. “Why would you write yourself behaving like that? You wouldn’t do those things to me. You didn’t do those things to me. And you’ve made Mary some kind of… super antihero. And what you had me do to you? Christ.”

Sherlock kissed the top of Rosie’s head as he bounced her in his arms, avoiding John’s gaze, but he could feel it anyway.

“Experiments in style,” he admitted grudgingly, “I altered fact and extrapolated to see where they took me.”

“They took you to crazytown, Sherlock. And this is the story you want Rosie to read about where she comes from?”

“They’re only first drafts,” Sherlock protested. “And I got… carried away.”

“I’ll say. We’re not saints, but we are not a complete arsehole and an abusive prick. And the rest of it…!”

Rosie woke up in earnest now, Sherlock’s tension communicating to her small body; making her twist and cry.

“What should we tell her then?” Sherlock challenged.

“The truth,” said John simply.

Sherlock blinked. “The truth. That’s it?”

“That’s it.” John smiled crookedly at Sherlock. “That’s all we’ve ever needed. Once we knew what it was.”

Their eyes met in one of those wordless conversations of theirs. A world of history, of knowing, of understanding.

“I’m sorry. They were… ill advised.”

“You’re a brilliant detective,” said John wryly, “But you’re a rubbish storyteller.”

“It is much harder than it looks.” Sherlock sounded rueful and it made John laugh.

Rosie wriggled then wailed.

“She needs a change,” said Sherlock. “I’ll do it.” He carried Rosie towards the downstairs room and the change table there.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Put that lot on the fire.”

John gathered up the exercise books. Seven of them. The last two he tore into quarters to make absolutely sure they burned. He never wanted Rosie seeing the smallest glimpse of what the contained. Small truths hidden in little untruths and big fat lies and downright nightmare fantasy.

The truth wasn’t always beautiful, but it was theirs. The truth of Sherlock and John and Mary; the truth of siblings and the terrible things they did.

It wasn’t pure or simple, but it was what it was.


End file.
